Scars are as permanent as love
by frukforever
Summary: While rummaging through the old attic of his and his lover's shared home, Arthur finds an old outfit. It brings back memories, scars and love.


It was a well-known fact that Arthur could not stand mess around him. Everything had to be clean, every single surfice polished, not a single thing on the wrong place. And every single saturday of the week, he would make sure that everything was just right, that the house looked presantable. You never know when someone decides to drop for a surprise visit, after all; the house needed to be as clean as it was possible.

Smugly the Briton watched the bedroom he had just finished cleaning; the bedsheets were perfectly on top of the bed, the few cushions in the perfect angle compared to each other. Everything was as perfect as it would be on some kind of home decoration magazine, yet it was still very comfy and beautiful. Only one room was out of Arthur's reach, as always; the kitchen. Even though he had no intentions to even try to cook, Francis made sure the Briton came nowhere near his fabulous kitchen.

"I am not doing this because I do not trust you, mon cher, I just... Well, we all have that one room for ourselves, non? I never spend time in the study, after all", the Frenchman had said earlier that day, pressing a kiss on his forehead before turning him gently away from the door. And he accepted it, even though he knew that part of Francis' reason not to let him into the kitchen was that he was afraid the Briton would blow it up somehow.

Shaking his head, the kitchen-thoughts now pushed aside, he decided to make sure he was using his time wisely. It always took an hour or so from Francis to cook a meal for them, and so he figured that he had enough time to try and clean up the attic. They didn't really visit it very often; it was filled with junk they did not need, and some things they didn't even want to see anymore.

He pulled down the rope ladder that led up to the attic, climbing them and switching on the light. There was a rather thick layer of dust everywhere, which really disgusted the Englishman. He hadn't thought the situation up here was that bad. After going downstairs to fetch his duster, he returned to the attic, opening the windows and starting to clean up.

After dusting most of the dust away, he started to go through all the stuff there was, and there was a lot of it. They were countries, after all; there was a whole bunch of history storaged there. Different kind of clothing from the eras they had lived through, some weapons, even some things that could be considered as treasures. They would be rich if they sold those things, but it would have raised suspicions if they would have suddenly went and sold gold coins from their pirate era.

There were a lot memories up there, both glorious and horrible. Arthur would have much rather just forgotten most of it; all the wars and the revolutions, all the pain that came within.

Soon he came across some old clothes that were without any doubt Francis'. He organized them, though, as well, knowing that the Frenchman was not going to do it anyway. He then came across a rather strange outfit; black button up shirt made of thin fabric, black trousers and a black jacket on top of it. He could not recall seeing Francis wearing such a mysterious outfit, not until he found a mask and a hat to match the outfit.

_Arthur knew it was going to be his end. Nothing would save him anymore, and it was all thanks to his own stupidity. He had doomed his people, he had doomed his own country, everything._

_There were ropes holding his wrists tightly together as he stood there on the gallows, a huge crowd of people cheering around him, shouting praises for their own leader. _

_It was a war between France and Britain, well, it had been, until he was captured. The English were winning the war, and so the leader of the country had decided to make a bold move; to try and conquer Paris. He knew that there were people all over Paris ready to defend the city and whole France if needed, but he was still stupid enough to send his troops there, he himself leading them. _

_It didn't take long until his men had all been defeated, the ones who weren't quickly retreating to England. He had been captured by one of the leaders of the French army, locked into the prison for a few days. And now there he was, tied up, unable to escape. He didn't fear dying, but he did fear what was going to happen to his people. If the leader of Britain died, the whole country would pretty much stop excisting. It would be conquered by the French people, taken over by the man he used to call his friend. _

_There wouldn't be a personification for Britain anymore; there was no need for one when his lands would be taken over by the Frenchman, the whole British culture distroyed. _

_Arthur really hadn't thought that Francis would be cruel enough to do this to him. They had grown up together, after all, they had been best friends. Countless of wars had made things in between the two of them quite difficult, but he couldn't say that he himself hated Francis. He held really fond feelings towards him, not that he had ever told that to the man. And it seemed like he was never going to tell him either._

_He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, which he thought to be his last one, when out of nowhere, a man riding a horse, dressed completely in black, the hat and mask hiding every facial expression, galloped to the gallows. Arthur was swiped of his feet and onto the horse, clutching tightly at the stranger as he made their way through the crowd, as quick as it was only possible._

_He could hear the French guards getting onto their horses, coming after them. He was utterly terrified; he would have much rather died at the gallows than like this._

_He heard the sound of a gun firing, squeezing his eyes shut and ducking his head, then gasping as he smelled the blood. The man in front of him was slightly hunched now, and considering his breathing it was easy to notice that he was hurting somewhere. Arthur looked up, seeing the blood trickling down the man's back._

"_We need to stop, you were shot...!" the Englishman said with his eyebrows furrowed, pressing his hand against the wound gently, trying to stop it from bleeding. The man didn't say a thing, only encouraged the horse to gallop faster, until they reached a small forest. He quickly stopped the horse, helping Arthur down. _

"_You need to go before they catch you", the man whispered to him, and Arthur thanked his savior before he ran away. He didn't dare to turn back, not wanting to know if the other was getting caught. _

_His savior remained anonymous to him, Arthur slowly forgetting about the whole thing. He was sure that the man saving him was a mortal, after all; there would be no need to try and search for him after all these years._

Arthur placed the clothing back into the chest where he had took it from, getting down from the attic. Even though he was strictly told not to go to the kitchen when Francis was cooking, he did just so, seeing the Frenchman there just pouring wine into their glasses. He walked over to Francis, wrapping his arms around him.

The Frenchman, who had been about to tell the other that food was not ready and that he shouldn't be there yet, couldn't help but smile at the affectionate greeting he got from his lover. He hugged him back, then chuckling as the Briton's hands started to unbutton his shirt.

"Usually you are willing to wait until we have eaten before you start to undress me", he teased the other, but let him do as he wanted; after all, the Briton did not act like this very often.

The shirt was soon dropped on the floor, thought Arthur was most certainly going to pick it up later. He turned the Frenchman around, taking in the sight of his back, Francis' muscles slightly tense since the man did not know what to expect. Slowly he brought his fingers to the skin of his neck, running them lower, until he reached the scar on his shoulder. Eyes fluttering closed, he leaned in, gentle lips pressed against the scarred skin, soft as ever.

"You betrayed your own country for me...", he whispered quietly.

For a moment, Francis was completely frozen. Arthur was not ever supposed to find out what he had once done for him. It was the worst a nation can do, to betray his own country. But Francis hadn't had any other choice, he simply couldn't just stand by and watch the only one he had ever loved like this die. He had to save Arthur and Arthur's country.

"I didn't have much choice...", Francis said softly as he turned around, his arms wrapping around the British man, pulling him close to him. "I had to save you, after all... I couldn't just let you die, mon cher. Even back then, you meant more to me than anything else", he whispered to the Briton, kissing his cheek softly.

Arthur sighed, moving his hand to gently stroke Francis' cheek, then wrapping his arms around his neck, moving as close to him as he only could.

"Francis..."

"Mm...?"

"You are an utter and complete idiot."

Laughing softly, the Frenchman kissed his lover, over and over again, the food on the table getting cold but neither of them caring.


End file.
